953 


ST.  PAUL. 


ST.  PAUL 


BY 

REV.  S.'  MILLER  HAGEMAN, 
AUTHOR     OF     "VESPER     VOICES,"      "GREENWOOD," 

"  PRINCETON    POETS,"     "  SILENCE,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK . 
THE  AUTHORS'  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1879,  by 

THE  AUTHORS'  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


TO 


MY   FATHER. 


THE   HONOR  IN   WHICH    I   HOLD   HIM. 


M191B48 

(M 


ST.   PAUL. 


IN  the  gloom  of  the  Mamertine  prison, 
In    the    cloak    that    from   Troas    was 
brought, 

Ere  the  star  of  his  soul  had  arisen, 
Sat  the  white-haired  apostle  of  Thought. 

The  struggling  light  of  the  candle, 
As  o'er  his  pale  forehead  it  fell, 

Shone  dimly,  on  toga  and  sandal, 

Shone  .dimly,  on  chain  and  on  cell. 

(7) 


The    fire    of    his    dark    eye    was    flash- 
ing 
Its  gleams  from  an  aquiline  face ; 

And   the   dream  of  his   spirit  was   dash- 
ing 
Its  mould  with  a  classical  grace. 

The   form   of   his   frame,  lithe   and   slen- 
der, 
By  sickness  and  suffering  was  drawn ; 

But  the  power  of  that  soul  in  its  splen- 
dor, 
Lit  the  dark  of   his  face  like  a  dawn. 


ST.     PAUL.  9 

Through  the  blood-spattered  floor,  cold 

and  solemn, 

A  fountain  wept  out  of  the  stone  ; 
And  a  cup  on  the  shaft  of  a  column, 
That  still  to  the  traveller  is  shown. 
In  its  gloom  was  nor    crevice  nor  grat- 
ing. 
In     its    wall     was     nor     window    nor 

door; 

For   those    who    within   it   were  waiting 
For  Death,  came  not  forth  evermore. 


io  ST.     PAUL. 

The   Tiber,  through   great    carven   arch- 
es, 

With  bannerol,  trumpet  and  throng, 
Still  sounding  of  navies  and  marches, 
Sweeps    by    those    grim    walls,   sadly 

on. 
Flow  brightly,  Romanian  river, 

But  ne'er  shall  thy  fast-rolling  flood, 
Though    it   wear    in    its    channel    forev- 
er, 
Wash  out  thy  dark  waters  of  blood. 


ST.     PA  UL.  n 

The  mould  on  that   dungeon  was  crust- 
ed, 
And   dashed,    with    the   pulse  of    the 

dead  ; 

The  chains  on  its  prisoners  were  rusted 
With    tears,   that    their    captives    had 

shed. 

In  the  stain  of   its    shadow   there   slum- 
bered, 

Far  back  in  the  quiet  of  time, 

Full  many  a  horror  unnumbered, 

Full  many  a  pageant  of  crime. 


12  ST.     PAUL. 

Oft  thither  in  triumph,  the  Roman, 
Had     brought    from    the     battle-field 

bound, 

With  falchion  and  banner,  the  foeman, 
To    be    thrust    through    the     Tullian 

round. 

And  thither,  with  rabble  and  jostle, 
Like    his    Lord    at    the    prick    of  the 

spear, 

They  hurried  the  Hebrew  apostle, 
With  cursing  and  volley  and  leer. 


ST.    PAUL.  13 

He  came,  with  the  air  of  a  stranger, 
To  the  death   he  so    long    must   have 

known ; 

He    blenched    not   at   dungeon   or   dan- 
ger 

Nor  shrank  from  his  pallet  of  stone. 
Within  the  Imperial  city, 
Through    which   years    before  he  had 

passed 

A  conqueror,  chill  to  all  pity ; 
A  captive,  it  found  him  at  last. 


14  ST.    PAUL. 

'Mid  thousands  of   homes  he  was  home- 
less, 

'Mid    thousands    that    knew    him,  un- 
known ; 

But  there  lingered  one  there  in  his  lone- 

\ 
ness 

With  whom  he  was  never  alone. 
'Twas  not  for  his  glad  eye  to  greet  him, 

'Twas  not  to  behold  him  from  birth ; 
That  his  spirit  at  midnight    might    meet 
him, 

Whom  mortal,  he  met  not  on  earth. 


ST.    PAUL.  15 

What    cared    he    for   death?   in    deaths 

often 

The  shadowy  form  he  had  seen  ; 
Till    in    fate    there    was     something    to 

soften 

E'en  itself,  by  what  it  had  been. 
For  as  an  island  lonely, 

That  lifts  its  palm  at  sea, 
Seems  fit  for  an  exile  only, 

So    seemeth    that     lone     soul    to    me. 


16  ST.    PAUL. 

He    felt    not    the    fetters    that    bound 

him, 

He  heard  not  the  sentinelled  pace, 
He     saw    not     the     walls     that     around 

him 
Frowned      down      on      his     wonderful 

face. 
He  feared  not,  for  God  was  his  keeper, 

He  felt  but  His  Spirit  within  ; 
And  his  soul  like  the  dream  of   a  sleep- 
er, 
Was  free  from  the  bondage  of  sin. 


ST.     PAUL.  17 

What  though  the  Imperial  eagle 

Might      brighten      its      crest      in     the 

sky? 
Caught  up  to  the  realm  of  the  regal, 

His  wing-footed  soul  was  on  high. 
What  though  in  his  fancy  escaping, 
He     roamed    the     blue     hills    of     his 

birth? 
Wert   thou    free    thou    wouldst   still   but 

be  shaping 
Thy  wings  in  the  prison  of   earth. 


i8  ST.     PAUL. 

Though  aged,  they  could  not  appall  him, 

A  prisoner,  they  could  not  pursue  ; 
They  might   chain,   but    they   could    not 

enthrall  him, 
They  might  crush,  but  they  could  not 

subdue. 
And  though  in    their  triumph  they  bind 

him 
Hand  and  foot   to  the  blood-breathing 

ground, 
'Twas    enough    that      his    bonds    might 

remind  him, 
That  the    Word    of   his  God  was   not 

bound. 


ST.     PAUL.  19 

I    wot   not   in   days    of   his   childhood 

By  mountain   and   river  and   glen, 
When     he    wandered    unwatched     thro' 
the  wildwood, 

Was  he  ever  so  free-born  as  then. 
I    wot    not   when    nature's    sweet    kind- 
ness, 

Grew   cold   in   that   cavernous   night, 
Like  Milton  imprisoned  in  blindness, 

Were  ever  its  glories  so  bright. 


20  5  T.     PA  UL . 

Full  oft  had  he  climbed  with  emotion, 
The  great   mountains  that   shot  up  on 
high 

Over    Tarsus,  and   seen   on    the   ocean, 
Their     slopes,     like    Heaven's    towers 

from  the  sky. 

And   thus,  on   his   memory  reflected, 
Time's  shadows  fell  solemnly  now ; 
As   when   in   their  grandeur   erected 
They  built   their   strong   thoughts    on 
his  brow. 


ST.     PA  UL.  21 

Farewell  for  thee,  father  and  mother, 

Thy  boat   lightly  swings   by  the    sea; 
Farewell  for  thee,  sister  and  brother, 

Farewell  home  forever  for  thee. 
Little     reck     they     the     fate     that     had 

sounded 

Its  death-knell  over  his  soul ; 
Or     the      beckoning     hand      that     was 

rounded 

For     him,    where     the     blue      billows 
roll. 


22  ST.     PAUL. 

O    Genius !    how  hardly  we   cherish 

Thy  sumptuous  gifts  to  the  world  ; 
Till,  the    rare   souls  that   proffered   them 

perish, 
And     the     colors    of     life    have    been 

furled. 
O  shame  on  the  ripe  earth  over, 

For  the  mouths  that  never  were  fed ! 
Till     under     the     snow    and     the     clov- 
er, 

They    were    filled    with    the    dust     of 
the  dead. 


5  T.     PA  UL  23 

The  foliage,  dreamy  and  tender, 

Waved  fresh  on  the  Cyprian  isle ; 
The    cities    he    passed     in    their     splen- 
dor, 
Once      more      in      the      sunlight      did 

smile. 

He     saw    down     the      distance      unbro- 
ken 

* 

The  sail  of   his  ship  on   the  sea ; 
And    he    knew   that  the   words   he   had 

spoken, 
With     its     pennon     went     flying     and 

free. 


24  5  T.     PA  UL . 

Through     the     wild-roaring     forests     of 

cedar, 
Through     the     night-haunted     jungles 

of   pine, 
He  passed,  without  ally  or  leader, 

Save    the    stars    that    above    him    did 

shine. 
Was  ever  such  traveller  stranded 

On  the  shadowy  eyot  of   earth  ? 
Was  ever  such  wanderer  landed 
An  exile  on  shores  of    his  birth  ? 


ST.     PAUL.  25 

Where  the  sun  on  Eurymedon   quivers 
From     the     Seglian      heights     to     the 

sea; 

In  perils  of   robbers  and  rivers, 
Thrice     scourged     and      thrice     ship- 
wrecked was  he. 
In  perils  of   city  and  prison, 

By  hunger  and  sickness  bested, 
He    was    stoned    by   the    mob    in    deri- 
sion 

And   dragged    through    the   street    as 
one  dead. 


26  ST.     PAUL. 

O  the  visions  that  often  and  often 

Thronged  back  on  his   memory  there ! 
Of    those   who   like   him,  loved   to   soft- 
en 

Their  fate,  with  the  spirit  of   prayer. 
Of     Christ,     in     the     Forum's     Commo- 
tion, 

Of  Moses,  on  Nebo  afar, 
Of  John,  in  the  islanded  ocean, 

Alone,  'neath  the  sentinel  star. 


ST.    PAUL.  27 

The  beast  in  the  crowded  arena, 

No  longer  fell  dead  at  his  spear; 
The  sounds  in  the  Grecian  sescena 

No  longer  provoked     his  dull  ear; 
The    hoof    of    the    horse    on    the   high- 
way, 

To  distant  Damascus  was  still ; 
No  more  to  his  cursing  reply  they, 

Nor  wheel  at  his  terrible  will. 


28  ST.    PAUL. 

The      stones     that      he      hurled      upon 

Stephen, 

Rose  up  in  his  dungeon  around, 
Till    each    one,  chill    and    glossy,  seem 

ed  even 

Alive,  with  a  face  and  a  sound. 
O    God!    there's    no   presence    like    ab- 
sence 

That  comes  to  a  human  heart; 

And    nothing,   in  widest   space,  that  can 

keep 
Two  souls  that  have  met — apart. 


ST.    PAUL.  29 

Chained    prisoners    came    crouching   be 
fore  him, 

To  mock  him  with  manacled  hands ; 
Sad  voices  swept  hauntingly  o'er  him, 

Like     night-winds    o'er     dim     cypress- 
lands. 
Sure  never  hath  rowel  or  rider, 

Urged  harder  the  fast-flying  horse; 
Sure  never  hath  memory  grown  wider 

To  tighten  the  rack  of   remorse. 


30  ST.    PAUL. 

He  thought  of  them  all  as  they  only 
Can      think,     who,      with      tremulous 

breath, 
Draw  near  once  again,  late  and  lonely, 

To   the   dead,  through    the   doorways 

of  death. 
And   grand   must   have  gleamed  to   his 

vision, 

The  sword,  howe'er  fiercely  it   shone; 
That  struck  through   the  gloom   of  his 

prison, 
A  light  on  his  crown   and  his  throne. 


ST.    PAUL.  31 

When   the   great  Night  wipes  up   soft- 

iy 

The  blood-drop  of  the  sun, 
From  the  earth,  where  all  too  oftly, 

Its  deeds  of  strife  are  done : 
Sleep  falls  on  the  moil  and  rattle, 

With  dew  from  the  dreamy  sky ; 
Like     faint    music    on    fields     of     bat- 
tle, 

Where     the     dead     and.     the     dying 
lie. 


32  ST.    PAUL. 

'Tis  then  that  the  broken  features, 

And  wrinkles  in  frames  grown  old, 
Are   the    chinks    through    which    God's 

dim  creatures, 

Catch  twilight  of  things  foretold. 
And  thou,  spite  thy  dying  sorrow, 
Did'st    thou     not     in     thy     darkened 

woe, 
By  faith,  for  thy  vision  borrow, 


The  light  that  shines  never  below. 


ST.    PAUL.  33 

What  is  it  that  makes  him  to  linger, 
So  long  o'er  each  cycle  and  clime; 
While  the  frostwork  of  history's  finger 

Melts  off  on  the  background  of  Time? 
What  is  it  that  makes  kings  grow  rest- 
less, 
That  from   their  strong  thrones  they 

bow  down, 
To    mark    though     his     bare     brow     be 

crestless, 

The    gleam     of     the     soul's     muffled 
crown  ? 


34  ST.    PAUL. 

He  came, — but  without  observation, 
Like    the    kingdom    of    God    that    he 

bore  ; 

He     came, — without      herald      or      sta- 
tion, 

To  those  he  had  not  seen  before. 
The  sail  of  his  vessel  blew  gently 
By  cities,  where  oft  on  the  tide, 
With  music,  and  banner  and  entry, 
Great      navies     had    sailed    in     their 
pride. 


ST.     PAUL.  35 

With    a     lone     winged     haste     like     the 

raven 

That  never  returned  to  its  rest ; 
He    founded     the     church     that    stands 

graven, 
On  the    globe    from  the  East    to  the 

West. 

He  pierced  with  one  deep  intuition, 
The  shadow  of  Time  to  the  last; 
He    swept    such    a  sphere    with    his  vi- 
sion, 

That    the    Future    lay    trampled    and 
past. 


36  ST.     PAUL. 

He    preached,   but    no   council   installed 
him, 

He  prayed,  but  no  hand    blessed  his 

head; 
The  voice  of  Jehovah  had  called  him, 

To  stand  in  his  glorious  stead. 
What   churchman    had    e'er    such    com- 
mission ? 

What  preacher  such  spirit  and  call? 
Contented  in  every  condition, 

Contained  in  whatever  might  befall. 


ST.    PAUL.  37 

Heresiarch !   faster  and  faster 
The    world     throngs     that     wonderful 

youth. 
Heresiarch  !     So  was  thy  Master, 

Though    front    the    clear  forthright   of 

Truth. 

Like  to  Him  with  thy  countenance  shat- 
tered, 

Thou  barefooted  beggar,   begone! 
Like  to  Him  with  thy  palium  tattered, 
Wan  Tatterdemalion. 


38  ST.     PAUL. 

They  told   him   that  others   were    teach- 
ing 
Strange      doctrines,      he      never      had 

taught ; 
Twas   enough  if   but    Christ   they  were 

preaching, 
Whether      falsely       or      truly       they 

wrought. 

His    spirit    like    summer    was    mellow, 
And    his  soul   like    a    tree,  on    whose 

top, 

The  ripe  fruit   that   hangs  red    and    yel- 
low, 
Has  nothing  to  do  but  to  drop. 


ST.    PAUL. 


39 


He  stood  in  the  dazzling  splendor 

That  on  the  Acropolis  shone  ; 
Where   thousands    bent   thirsty    to     ren- 
der 

His    corse    to    precipitous    stone. 
He   stood   there   with   spirit   undaunted, 
As     the      eagle-swan     stands      in    the 

sun  : 

And     held    the     hushed     thousands     en- 
chanted, 
Till  the  day  over  Athens  was  done. 


40  ST.    PAUL. 

He  lifted  up  Christ  in  his  beauty, 

Colossal  o'er  sect  and  o'er  creed  ; 
To  draw  all  men  to  him  in  duty, 

As    the     sun    in    the    sky    draws     the 

seed. 
He  frowned  on  the  forms  of  division, 

That  fence  men,  for  trifle,  apart; 
He      broke    down     the    walls   of    parti- 
tion, 

And    the    world    felt  the    beat   of    his 
heart. 


ST.     PAUL.  41 

He  spake  not  of   city  or  building, 
He  sung  not  of   statue  or  art ; 

For  a  glory,  unearthly,  was  gilding 
The  kingdom  of   Heaven  in  his  heart. 

And     though     by     their     pageants     sur- 
rounded, 

Like  the  lily  that  sees  not  its  stem ; 
'Mid    the    music    with    which    they   re- 
sounded, 

Twas  of   Christ   that  he   thought,  not 
of  them. 


42  ST.     PA  UL 

He  burned  up  the  books,  Superstition 
Had  heaped  with  a  sorcerer's  hand, 

As  she  sat  in  the  gates  of   tradition, 
And    stared    like    the    Sphinx    to    the 

sand. 

Bought  up  from  his  boyhood  a  bigot, 
He     turned     from     the     Jew     to     the 

World ; 
And     preached,    where    the    sail    of    his 

frigate, 

On     its     far    distant     shore     was     un- 
furled. 


ST.    PAUL.  43 

Brought  up  in  the  empire  of  battle, 

Brought     up     in     its     pride     and     its 
flower ; 

What   wonder   that   force  was   his   chat- 
tie? 

What  wonder  his  passion  for  power? 
But  never  a  conflict  so  splendid, 

Hath    sent   through   the    round    earth 
its   thrill, 

As  that  'ere  his  warfare  was  ended, 
Was    waged     with      his     conquering 
will. 


44  ST.     PAUL. 

He  stood  in  the  furnace  of   passion, 

And     conquered     its       heat     and     its 
stride ; 

He  stood  at  the  forum  of  fashion, 

And    vanquished    its    power    and    its 
pride. 

He  stood   in  the  strength  that    is    weak- 
ness 

To  those  who  have  felt  not  its  birth ; 
With    the     might     of     invincible     meek- 
ness, 
He  moved  the  whole  empire  of  earth. 


ST.     PAUL.  45 

The  shape  of  his  only  ideal, 

Was  one  he  could  never  attain ; 
It  rose  o'er  the  realm  of  the  real, 
But  victor,  he  followed  in  vain. 
He     moulded     his     soul     on    the     meas- 
ure 

Of   God,  and  not  of  his  own. 
He   laid    up   his    crown    and    his    treas- 
ure, 

For    the    deed     that     shall     never     be 
done. 


46  57:     PAUL. 

Will  no  one,  alas,  come  to  open 
These    gates    warm     with    freedom's 

breath  ? 
Brave    heart,  must     thou   perish    unhol- 

pen 
Save  but  by  the  Angel,  Death? 

Is  the  world  to  come  but  a  bubble, 
Blown     off     at     a    child's     mouth     in 

air? 
Is  this  life  but  a  cheating  trouble 

Lost     clean    out    in    thy     cold    grave 
there  ? 


ST.    PAUL.  47 

Can     it     be     that     the     love     and      the 

beauty 
In  mother  and  child  are  in  vain  ? 

That  stern  Death  is  doing  its  duty 
O'er      that     which      shall      live      not 

again  ? 
Furl    back,    mists    of    space,   from    dead 

faces 

Furl  back,  if  mayhap,  as  before, 
They     may     come     softly     out     in     old 

places, 
And  look  on  us  warmly  once  more. 


48  5  T.     PA  UL . 

The    soul,    like   a  shell    that   is     sound- 
ing 

In  a  strange  foreign  land  of  the  sea; 
Sings  an  echo  that  ever  is  rounding 

•The  Kingdom  of  Heaven  in  me. 
And     sometimes      its      murmur      seems 

faintly, 

As  it  folds  round  the  spirit  within, 
To  waft  from    the  shores    of   the    saint- 

iy. 

The  sound  of  its  vast  silent  din. 


ST.    PAUL.  49 

It  sings  to  me  in  the  shadow, 

It  sings  to  me  in  the  sun, 
It    sings     in     the     bird     and     the     mea- 
dow, 

And  its  song  is  never  done. 
I  know  not  if  Death  shall  sever, 

My  soul  from  the  years  to  be  ; 
But       I       know       that        forever       and 
ever, 

It  sings  and  it  sings  to  me. 


50  ST.    PAUL. 

Go,   Doubt    hide    thy     wan      face    for- 
ever, 
In  the  gloom  of  that  Tullian  hold ; 

Come     thou     forth     upon     earth     again 

never 
To  vex  men  till  time  shall  be  told. 

Immortality  !     Christ  hath  arisen, 

By      night       from  '     the      rock-riven 

tomb, 
And  shines  o'er  captivity's  prison, 

The    star    of    the    great     World     to 
come. 


ST.    PA  UL.  51 

Great  multitude  no  man  can  number, 
Calm       beautiful       homes        of       the 

Blest ; 

The  heart,  though  it  throbbeth  in  slum- 
ber, 
But  knocks    at   thy  closed    doors    for 

rest. 
And    thought,    like    a    night-bird,    lone- 

iy, 

Breaks  its   wing   on  thy  walls  in  her 

flight 

Ah  !     Death's  rusty  night-key  only 
Can  open  the  Palace  of   Light. 


52  ST.    PAUL. 

Go   think   of    him,  ye,    on   whom     light- 

*y 

The       load       of      transgression     hath 

pressed  ; 
Go  think  of  him,  ye,  to  whom  nightly, 

Sleep    brings    but    the    dream    of    un- 
rest. 
Go  think  of  him,  Genius,  God-gifted, 

Whose  wrecks,  like  unpiloted  ships, 
On    the    waters     of     doubt     have  "  been 

drifted, 
Sun-tipped  in  the  gloom  of    Eclipse. 


ST.     PAUL.  53 

Shine     on,     thou      proud      figure,     for- 
ever, 
Though  the    sun   that    first  saw    thee 

hath  set, 

Shine  on,  all  thy  years  cannot  sever 
The     glory    that     hangs     round     thee 

yet. 
And      though    thou     dip    farther      and 

farther, 
As    a    sail    down    the    trend    of    the 

sea; 
Great     Spirit !     'Twill    serve     but     the 

rather, 
To  bring  us  the  nearer  to  thee. 


54  ST.    PAUL. 

The   chieftains   that    ravished    those    re- 
gions, 

Lie  dead  in  the  days  that  are  done  ; 
We     hear     not    the      tread      of      their 

legions, 
We    heed    not     the    conquests     they 

won. 

But  still  like  a  shout,  undiminished, 
Over  city  and  hamlet  and  home ; 
"I     have    fought    a    good    fight!"     "I 

have  finished ! " 
Rings  out  of  that  dungeon  at  Rome. 


ST.    PAUL.  55 

He  went  as  he  came,  like  a  victor, 
He     Avent     as       he     came,     by       the 

sword ; 

But  not  by  the  blow  of  the  lictor, 
But    the    knight-errant    touch    of    the 

Lord. 

With    the    stars   for   processional    splen- 
did, 
Through    the    triumphal-arch    of     the 

sky  : 

He    passed,    like     a     conqueror     attend- 
ed, 

And      more     than     a     conqueror     on 
high. 


56  ST.     PAUL. 

O    Paul !     though    the    world    from    thy 

preaching, 
Should    turn    with   the    stream  to    the 

sea ; 
'Twere    enough     for   the    truth    of    thy 

teaching, 
Had  it    wrought   in  the   whole  world, 

but  thee. 
Thou     hast    need    of     no     sculptor     or 

painter 

To  freshen  the  power  of  thy  face. 
For  fairer  as  others  grow  fainter, 

Thou   shalt    leave   on    each  spirit   thy 
trace. 


ST.    PAUL.  57 

Albeit  the  creeds  of  the  Ages, 

Rave  fiercely  with  ravin  and  ramp ; 
Like  lions  in  opposite  cages, 

Like  cannon  in  opposite  camp. 
Albeit  that  men  are  defending 

Christ's  love   with  the  sword  and  the 

stave ; 

All     sects     o'er     his    body     are     blend- 
ing, 


As  sons  at  a  sweet  mother's  grave. 


58  ST.     PAUL. 

Beheaded — but     Jesus      hath      crowned 

him, 

i 

"  Well    done "  is    the    wreath    of    his 

fame  ; 
Forsaken — but   nations  are  round  him, 

To  echo  the  sound  of  his  name. 
Imprisoned — but  space  is  the  portal, 

Flung  sheer  to  his  ministering  soul ; 
Immured — but  forever  immortal, 

To  the  racer  that  presses  the  goal. 


ST.     PAUL.  59 

The    Colossus    has    strid    from   its    col- 
umn, 

The    banquets  are  cold    in    their   bow- 
ers ; 

The  water   sleeps    mastless   and   solemn, 
And    the    moon    on    the    mouldering 

towers. 
The  idols  no  longer  are  reaching 

Their      palms     to      the      worshipper's 

call; 
But  Paul,  on  that   pedestal  preaching, 

Stands  alone  there  forever,  o'er  all. 


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